by Rita Herron
He’d damn near lost it.
Grappling for control, he reminded himself that the killer hadn’t warned any of the other victims. Maybe he didn’t plan to murder Claire, maybe he was just using her….
He wished to hell he could believe it.
Tires squealed as he took the turn. Claire’s hands were clenched around the seat belt, her sightless eyes wide and staring into space. Guilt forced him to slow the car; he was scaring her. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s going to be all right, Mark.”
He tossed out a sardonic chuckle. “How can you be so calm?”
“You’re frantic enough for both of us.”
He laughed again, but his laughter held no humor. Claire had always been calm in the face of a storm, the reason she was such a good psychologist, where he’d let his temper rule his actions.
Except on the battlefield. He had to rein in his emotions to do his job, and he had done it. The controlled soldier, meticulous with details, focused on the hunt when tracking down a war criminal, religious about tamping his personal feelings.
Except for the night he’d lost his men. Then he’d fallen apart.
But he had to maintain his control now.
Because Claire was involved. This battle was personal. She was in danger.
“You can drop me off at the center,” Claire said quietly.
“Not a chance, Claire. I’m going in to start questioning the staff.”
“Oh…right.”
He neared the Coastal Island Research Park’s main facility, and slowed, frowning at the cluster of people gathered around the front steps. “Is the center hosting some special event today?”
“No, why?”
“There’s a crowd out front.” He parked and cut off the engine, scanning the group. “Dammit. The press is here, too.” He opened the car door, furious. Claire stepped out with her cane, and he halted. “Wait here, Claire, let me see what’s going on.”
“This is my business environment, Mark. I’m going with you.”
He scrubbed his hand over his chin and met her in front of the car, then grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm. “Then hold on.”
She tensed, but finally acquiesced, and he led them through the throng until they were close enough to hear the speaker. He recognized Ian Hall, the Director of CIRP, from the photos Devlin had shown him. Cameras were trained on him, while he held a microphone in his hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your time today,” Hall said. “On behalf of CIRP, I want to publicly express our concern over the two young women who phoned Dr. Claire Kos. She’s a valuable member of our team, and has done an outstanding job combining her practice and lecturing on various topics, the very reason she was chosen to host the radio talk show. CIRP is doing everything in our power to help the police investigate these violent deaths.”
“Although the police haven’t verified they’re dealing with a serial killer,” a lanky reporter said, “all evidence suggests that fact.”
“I heard they’re calling him the Midnight Murderer,” another reporter said.
More reporters jumped in, shouting questions at once.
“Is Dr. Kos available to speak to us?”
“Yes, where is she?”
“Does Dr. Kos know the identity of the Midnight Murderer?”
Mark shoved Claire behind him. “I can’t believe this. He’s milking the crimes to get publicity for CIRP.”
“I can assure you,” Hall continued, “Dr. Kos is doing everything possible to assist the police. I will arrange an interview for her when we speak again.”
“Like hell you will,” Mark muttered.
A tall reporter in front of him turned and noticed Claire’s cane. Seconds before she pounced, her eyes turned hawkish. “Dr. Kos is here now! Let’s hear what she has to say.”
The other reporters elbowed their way toward them like vultures. Mark encircled Claire with his arm and pushed through the crowd. “Dr. Kos has no comment.”
“Mark—”
“Come on, Claire, you’re not going public.”
He dragged her up the stairs, fending off hands and microphones, then shot Ian Hall a threatening look. “Get inside, Hall, we have to talk.”
Hall gaped, but recovered enough to paste on a smile for the camera. “That’s all for today, but thank you for coming. We’ll keep you posted.”
One of the reporters grabbed Mark’s arm. “Sir, are you a policeman? FBI?”
“He’s Mark Steele,” another reporter shouted. “He’s the guy who survived that explosion overseas.”
Mark gripped Claire harder. Dammit, he hadn’t thought about being recognized.
“Lt. Steele, can you tell us what happened to your men?”
Mark gritted his teeth and pushed the horde of reporters away.
“Mark?” Claire angled her head to him in question.
He had refused all interviews so far. He didn’t intend to talk now and open his wounds to the public.
“Get inside, Claire,” he barked.
Hall ducked inside behind Mark as the crowd moved forward. Mark shut the door, then yelled at a security guard to bar anyone from entering.
Ignoring the reporters’ references to himself and pleas to talk to Claire, he turned to Hall. “What the hell are you trying to do, get Claire killed?”
Chapter Five
Claire had never heard Mark lose his temper before. Although he’d probably taken lives while in the army, she hadn’t sensed that he was a violent man.
But this Mark was someone she didn’t know.
What had happened to him this past year to change him? What had happened to his men?
Stories of posttraumatic stress syndrome rushed to her mind. She wished she could see his face, look into his eyes and study the shadows, ask him about the demons that had followed him home. But she and Mark no longer shared that closeness.
“I don’t know who are you, Mister, but I suggest you back off.” Ian Hall’s voice held a hint of fear he’d tried to disguise with his command, but Claire recognized the emotion.
“Special Agent Mark Steele, FBI,” Mark said. “I’m working with Dr. Kos to find the Midnight Murderer.”
“I see. Well, welcome to CIRP, Agent Steele,” Hall said, changing his tone. “As I said in my press announcement, I’ll do everything possible to aid your investigation.”
“Then you don’t mind answering a few questions?”
“Of course not.”
“And yon’t interfere when I interview your employees?”
A hesitant second followed. “My staff will assist you in every way they can, but you will, of course, have to go through our security channels.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning certain areas and files are restricted.” Claire heard the rustle of Ian’s starched shirt as he straightened his tie, a nervous movement she’d noticed before. “But I will make certain you have access to any pertinent information.”
“Then you won’t be holding any more press conferences and offering Claire up as the proverbial cure for your bad publicity.”
“Mark,” Claire said sharply, infuriated he’d speak to her boss about her.
“He has no right, Claire,” Mark said.
“That’s between Dr. Hall and myself,” Claire argued.
“No,” Mark said in a cold voice. “Not anymore. I’m in charge of this case. You’ll both follow my orders.”
Claire balked. She’d discuss his tone with him later, away from her co-worker. “I have to go to my office,” she said. “I have patients scheduled.”
Mark’s hand went to the small of her back. So natural, yet so unnatural now that things had changed. “I’ll walk you, then I’d like to talk to some of the staff members on your list, Claire.”
She pulled away slightly, just to make a point. Mark might be in charge of the case, but he wouldn’t control her. “Let’s go.” The sooner he questioned her fellow employees and friends, the sooner they’d solve th
is case, and he’d be gone from her life.
Then she wouldn’t be reminded of how much she wanted him, or be tempted to worry about the darkness tainting his voice, or the fact that she desperately wanted to reach out and hold him.
And she’d never have to reveal her secret.
WHILE IAN HALL showed Mark the main building of the research park and coughed up a general sales pitch and description of the other buildings, Mark memorized the layout, the various types of research projects taking place and the names of the heads of each department. He also kept an ear and eye on Hall, searching for any hint that the man might be involved in the murders.
It was a little far-fetched that the new director would actually murder to gain attention, especially considering the prior scandal associated with the center. On the other hand, what better way to promote goodwill and garner publicity than by swooping in to save the entire city from a crazed killer? The mystique of Nighthawk Island certainly had attracted some odd characters. For all he knew, Hall could have hired or brainwashed someone into committing the crimes.
As they made their way back to Hall’s office, the director turned to him. “Where do you plan to start, Agent Steele?”
“Since Claire…Dr. Kos, seems to be the only link between the victimsll need to question everyone—her colleagues, business acquaintances, friends.”
“Then let’s head to the psychiatric department.” Hall gestured toward the door. “We can take this corridor through the breezeway that connects the buildings.”
A few minutes later, Hall introduced Mark to Dr. George Ferguson, the head of the psychiatric department, then excused himself for a conference call. Ferguson was probably in his midthirties, had dark hair, and was all business. Although there were two male doctors in their sixties on staff, Claire had dismissed them already, saying they didn’t fit the profile because of age and in the latter case, agility.
“I’m sure you understand why I’m here,” Mark said, seating himself in the chair across from Ferguson’s desk.
“Yes, we’ve all been concerned about Claire since the phone calls.”
Mark stiffened. “How well do you know Dr. Kos?”
Ferguson frowned. “We’re co-workers and friends. We’ve consulted on a few cases.”
“You hired her?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know either of the women who were murdered?”
“No.”
Mark sighed. “What’s your theory on the killer’s reason for phoning Claire?”
“It’s that damn show,” Ferguson said. “I’ve never been in favor of TV and radio pop psychology shows. Dispensing advice without a complete assessment of a patient is dangerous. The entire setup opens the door for liability cases. Malpractice insurance has skyrocketed in the past few years already.”
So, he was just as concerned about money as the people’s welfare. “Dr. Kos was aware of potential problems?”
“Yes, she took precautions, but I’m still not in favor of using the show as a venue to make Ian Hall look good.”
“You don’t get along with the new director?”
“We’re amicable. I simply disagree with a few of his tactics.” Ferguson fiddled with a paper clip. “Our jobs and the work we do here is invaluable. We don’t need to advertise it.”
“Your specialty is psychotic disorders?”
“Yes, but I treat a variety of illnesses, as does Claire and most of the doctors here. Since Claire’s lecture tour, we consider her our resident specialist on families in crisis.”
Mark took note of the man’s desk; his office was immaculate, neat, orderly. Even the pushpins in the bulletin board behind him were in a straight, even row. “Do you think his calls to Claire seem personal, that he knows her?”
Ferguson drew a repetition of small circles with the clip as he spoke. “I believe he chose her because she’s in the public eye. Serial killers want to be noticed. They’re often from abused homes, are insecure and seek out attention.”
“That’s pretty much w Claire said.”
Ferguson smiled, revealing perfect teeth. “We normally agree.”
Mark clenched his jaw. “Are you single?”
Ferguson twitched. “Yes.”
“Ever been married?”
“No, no time for it.” Ferguson shifted, jiggling a paper clip into his palm. “What does my marital status have to do with this case?”
Mark shrugged. “Nothing, maybe. But I have to ask.”
Ferguson’s eyebrows shot up. “I get it. You think someone who knows Claire is the killer, and you’re looking at me as a suspect?” The doctor leaned back, barked out a laugh. “That’s absolutely ridiculous.”
Mark simply stared at him. “It’s routine. I’m questioning all of Claire’s business and personal acquaintances. Then we can eliminate people and determine the real killer’s identity.”
“All right, then allow me to clarify the situation, Steele. I don’t need to kill women or make clandestine calls to Claire to get attention. I might be single, but it’s not for lack of interest by the female population.”
Ahh, the doctor was arrogant and cocky, too.
“So, you’ve dated Claire?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
Ferguson’s fists tightened. “That’s none of your business.”
Mark leaned forward, arms crossed. “Let me guess, you asked her out, but she turned you down?”
Anger darkened Ferguson’s eyes. “I’m not the only one she refused. Claire hasn’t been very social since she came on board. I wanted to change that.”
Mark just bet he did. “Who else approached her?” When he didn’t respond, Mark pressed him, “Look, I’m going to find out sooner or later, so you might as well tell me. Help me narrow down the suspect list, it’s the only way to catch the real killer.”
Ferguson shoved his blunt nails through his hair. “Half the male staff wants to date Claire, Steele. Our newbie, Kurt Lassiter got turned down just last week.” Ferguson dropped the clips on the desk, scraped back his chair and stood. “Now, I believe we’re finished.”
“One last question. Where were you the past two Friday nights at midnight?”
“At home in my office, preparing notes on a case.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
Ferguson’s eye twitched slightly. “No, I was alone.” He gestured toward the door with a flick of his thumb. “This meeting is over.”
Mark thanked him. He didn’t trust Ian Hall or George Ferguson. But he obviously had a few more names on the list to sort through.
He wouldn’t stop until he questioned every staff member. K Lassiter was next.
And if one of them intended to get revenge on Claire because she’d rebuffed him, Mark would make sure he put a stop to their plans.
CLAIRE REVIEWED her patient files again, the same two names popping up as suspicious. Joel Sanger and Richard Wheaton. But she refused to turn them over to the cops for questioning, not unless she was certain one of them was the Midnight Murderer.
She had scheduled appointments with both men for that afternoon, hoping to determine their moods and check their mental stability. She breezed through two other consultations first; one, a woman with an eating disorder, the second, an alcoholic father who had been forced into treatment during a custody battle. Both faced a lengthy recovery process.
When Joel Sanger strode in, she immediately sensed an air of angry tension surrounding him. From his file, she knew he was in his early twenties, with wiry brown hair. A tattoo of a lizard snaked up his left arm and a nose ring dangled from his nose. Loud rap music pounded from his CD player, the lyrics full of violence toward women.
She tried not to read too much into his choice of music, but his behavior proved he had little respect for females. He did, however, enjoy racy sex. In their last session, he’d used some colorful language and invited her to participate.
“Hello, Joel.”
“Yo.” Th
e music blared on.
“Can you turn that down, please, so we can talk.”
“What if I don’t feel like talking?”
Claire grappled for a nonjudgmental, even tone. Reacting to a patient would only work against her. She had to maintain an air of authority to be effective. “Then I tell your parole officer that you aren’t cooperating.”
He released a string of expletives, and she reached for the phone.
“Dammit, lady, don’t call.”
“The music?”
It faded into silence.
“Thank you.” She gestured toward the sofa. “Would you like to sit down?”
“No.”
During their first two sessions, she’d felt his animosity, but the last two visits, he’d been more talkative. He appeared to have regressed.
“What’s on your mind today, Joel?”
He broke into a bitching session about his ex-wife. “She oughta get a job as a prison warden.”
“I thought you didn’t want her to work,” Claire said, remembering their earlier discussion. Joel had some archaic views about women; he thought their place was in the home and their function to serve men. His wife had finally balked when he’d turned violent one night, and she’d pressed charges. But she’d dropped them under the stipulation that he receive counseling.
“Hell, I don’t, I’m just saying she’s mean as a pit b
“So, you two aren’t getting along?”
He paced across the room, fiddled with the blinds. They screeched as he repeatedly opened and closed them. “We’re okay now. She made up for being bad.”
Claire’s skin crawled, the caller’s words echoing in her ears. She’s been a bad girl, Claire. A very bad girl.
“What do you mean, she made up for being bad?”
A sardonic chuckle escaped him. “In bed.” He shuffled toward her, his voice growing menacingly low. “Just like all bad girls, Doc, she had to be punished.” His breath, foul from cigarette smoke, brushed her face as he invaded her space. “She took it real good, though, Doc. Took her punishment like a lady.”